


the first Alice (was a courageous red one)

by theapplekeeper (Deunan)



Series: Writerverse [4]
Category: Alice in Wonderland - Free Form, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alice is a symbol, BAMF Alice, Gen, she's also lost her Mad Hatter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deunan/pseuds/theapplekeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Red Queen had a second reign and Alice is one of the very few survivors of the ensuing war. She is leading them. She is leading them to Death.</p><p>Or: In which Alice is less and more at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJcomm: Writerverse and its Challenge #17: April BINGO Table (words: Captain, Mad Hatter, and First Blood).
> 
> It’s also a free-form Alice in Wonderland, so pick your favorite Alice (Carol, Disney, SyFy, other). Title comes from song lyrics “the first Alice was a courageous red one” in/by Alice Human Sacrifice. I was lost on YouTube with the BINGO table just sitting there. Fate. 
> 
> Possibly part of a series, with time travel, and Death (who might be in a relationship with Time). I don't know.

The pain was singular, unmistakable for anything else. Sharp and dull at once, skin stretched tight and weighted through a hundred tiny follicles. Experience has driven knife’s edge again and again and again, instilled a loathing towards anything touching the neck. Back or front.

It has saved her before.

It saves her now.

It is almost impossible for a hand to truly gain leverage in the manner it tries. It has nothing to do with texture or the way it falls, it has everything to do with length. Fingers slip from a desperate grasp of her hair and she is able to turn, to slice, to fight.

She’ll have a headache now, but it is nothing next to the burnt skin of her shin or the shrapnel in her shoulder. The body of her assailant succumbs to gravity and she’s moving, always moving. On. Through. The masses don’t part for her, no, not hardly. Not like they do for her sword.

A memory, an echo, a whisper once given settled heavy within long before now.

_Let it be your hand, your arm, your heart._

Flesh is easier to cut than armor, but both sides are burdened such. The trick of course was placement. She is more successful than those foolish enough to get close. Less so than ideal. The pauldron on her right gives to force, spikes added to blunt weapon doing their job all to well.

A shout. A yell. War cries and last breath shouts.

Ambidexterity a gift hard won; she changes grip on her sword. More dead with her will. The battle carries on.

It is not epic.

Nor is it honorable.

It holds no grace.

It is  
             fast  
                   loud      
          chaotic.

There are many, those who would stand beside her. An army under her command, pawn to knight. She lives. They live. They fight. They are _hers_. She is theirs. A symbol, a banner, a token, a blessing from the gods they hold dear, tighter than another with a loyalty fanatical.

It matters little. So very, very little for they will not leave this field. Defeat is their future and all sides knew from the start.

It was only a matter of time.


	2. la mort de l’alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice dies. Sorta.
> 
> (Or: in which Alice meets Death who gives her a vague Quest and tells her Destiny has woven her something great.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for LJ comm Writerverse and their Challenge #25: Picture Prompt (which was a misty forest, a old wooden bridge, and a river).

Death comes for her on the battlefield and it’s not quite as she expected. And of course she has expectations; she’s always liked the thought of something sweet and easy: arriving just in time for a warm cup of tea, a pulled out chair and a crooked smile.

She doesn’t get it, but that’s fine. While she liked the pretty promise of a reunion she’s always held to the knowledge that her death would mean a lot of nothing. As in, not this. Because this, this is something.

Something of a very small portion of seeable land that’s more mud than dirt and a river she can vaguely place as an off-shoot to the Sorrows.

At her feet lay her body, as in, she is literally standing in her own torso. Shifting brings her attention to her sword, which she still has in hand. That the Vorpal Blade followed her is something she isn’t quite ready to acknowledge; is, in fact, much more unsettling than her current position of sprouting from the dead like a weed.

And then, of course, there’s Death. Who is less of a thing and more of a person. But then, there are stories. Stories of a black shrouded skeleton and a scythe. Stories of cold breath and an unending task. That Death is in a human form shouldn’t have actually surprised her; but does.

It does because Death isn’t a skeleton, isn’t wearing black, and has no scythe. Death is, as it happens, a bit of a portly gentleman with a green waistcoat and a hickey.

Alice looks down to check and, yes, that is her (very dead) body.

“Shame about that feint,” says Death, “you were doing quite splendidly till then.”

“Indeed,” says Alice, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

Death toes the corps, jostling it in a way she cannot.

“Still, we were always going to meet. You were always going to be Mine. I like that you’re not crying about it.”

There’s a great many things she hasn’t cried about in a great deal of time; dying is something of a mixed blessing. But yes, she was always going to die.

“Now then. I’m not going to ask you to fill out the questionnaire, but-“ and here Death has magic’d into the air a quill and a roll of parchment. It hovers. “But! Don’t think, just answer. Word association, even. No wrong answer. So, horror story or happy ending? Oh my. You would, wouldn’t you? No matter. What about: greatest accomplishment? Hmm? Oh. Oh, bother.”

Alice doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think anything either. Just frowns at Death and Looks with absolute focus, the kind of full-body/preternatural-sense Look she’s been told is terrifying.

It doesn’t faze Death, but then, that’s not why she does it. She’s trying to peel back the layers of velvet and move beyond red curls; get underneath the illusion of form because there is no way this --this-- is Death.

“Greatest Regret? Still noth- No. Listen; I can send you back, you know,” says Death while Looking at her. “Whatever it is, you could change it.”

She very carefully does not think about her Hatter. Very carefully and with great skill. Instead, she thinks about the cold damp earth beneath her feet and the lazy breeze and the warm humidity so different than the tundra she had died defending. She thinks about the dead that should be here, with her, because she didn’t die alone. She thinks about the Silversmith and Bastion and Iantha. She thinks about tiny cakes and the smell of peppermint. 

And while she’s thinking these things, she’s also Thinking about Death and the tousled curls and the hickey and the paling cheeks she realizes had been flushed at first meeting. She Thinks these things with great skill and is gratified to see Death magic away its quill and its questionnaire she wants nothing to do with.

“Well. Where did…” and Death is patting through pockets, right hip, left hip, breast-pocket, inner-breast-pocket; from right boot comes a business card. “Ah. Aha! Here, go on, my dear, take it. Give us a ring when you change your mind about those answers.”

She does not take the card, but when it disappears and Death looks pleased she figures its somewhere on her person regardless.

Death gives a jubilant smile, all sunshine and enthusiasm, one fist punching the non-sky: “I’ve done it. I’ve got time.”

_Well, you would._ Alice doesn’t say.

“No, my dear. Time. He’s quite the fan, actually. And you have just won me a great deal of money. Well, I say money. What I mean is- No. Never mind that. I shouldn’t tell you, of all people. Bit awkward, I’d think, when everything comes out. Besides. Destiny! Look at what he’s woven for you. You- you’ll just love it. There’s much to do. Much. To. Do!”

Then Death pushes her onto a bridge and leaves her with some very strange advice: “And Alice? Don’t eat the Radish King.”


End file.
